Bing moved towards the washroom, lightfooted, like a hustler running into a prostitute in a brothel, humming and singing, “Oh, my plum blossom, my dear plum blossom, my dearest plum blossom...”
Chapter 6
The walls could no longer sleep. The wind blew them hard enough to rumble. The rain hopped over the sloping half-steeled-half-tiled roof, where the randomly scattered tiles were a mix of gray, black and whitish. Some looked old with cracks. Some looked new. But the steeled part was obviously aged, rusty and mossy. It seemed the tiles were there only because there was a hole. As the rain hit various objects, the mixed sounds were a toneless symphony played by an incomplete orchestra. Sleigh bells tinkled as the rain beat the steel. Two cellists played like a mad man tiptoeing with a mad woman clipping as the water splashed on the tiles. A solo bassist gave play to the saddest note when the moss was fl ooded. Then the pianist performed a lively piece as streams of water running down the indentations. When the wind echoed, a group of brass players vibrated the air like a bunch of punks punching a belly, an angry boy kicking a football in the mud, a tap dancer expressing her agony. It was a mysterious mess. And there was no pure harmony on a winter morning of the plum blossom.